


Entertainment

by looneymoony



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: College, Fluff, M/M, reading your old fics like :')
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5132324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looneymoony/pseuds/looneymoony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Television isn’t readily accessible to college students in the 70s. Other methods of amusement must be utilized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Written: October 4, 2015  
> Tumblr Source: http://looneymoonyreblog.tumblr.com/post/130460695086/ah-yes-a-classic-this-will-serve-us-nicely-i  
> Written in response to a prompt, as follows:  
> "Fiddauthor prompt: They're in college together and neither of them know how to flirt"  
> ah yes a classic. this will serve us nicely. i guess ill call this "entertainment"

Friday nights were usually something to be excited about in college. They were a celebration of yet another week of classes brought to an end, a time when the students could finally let loose and go wild. To not hear the muffled crowds cheering from the dorm room above as they played their records a little too loudly was likely a sign of the apocalypse. There was not one student at Backupsmore who was home that night, and those who were had some form of company.

All except for Stanford Pines.

Stanford was reclining against the arm of a couch in his dorm room, attempting to ignore the thumping of feet up above him and yet failing miserably. His makeshift earplugs had failed all of ten minutes after insertion, and he couldn’t exactly annotate his textbook with his face buried in a pillow. Someone turned up the record player’s volume even further, and Ford challenged it by groaning even louder. Rubbing his eyes, he was debating whether or not it would be effective to hold his neighbors at gunpoint until they turned down the volume when he heard the front door click open.

Ford didn’t even have to look up to know who had arrived. His quiet humming and loud footstes were a dead giveaway, even without seeing his face. As he finished locking the door, he turned around and jumped a little at the sight of Stanford.

“Oh, hey, Stanford! Pardon me, I didn’t see ya there, you were so quiet,” said Fiddleford, smiling from behind a ridiculously tall stack of books piled up to his chin. Stanford wondered what qualified as ‘loud’ and ‘quiet’ for this man. He heaved his books onto the coffee table and sat himself on the floor across from his roommate. “In retrospect, I should’ve known you’d be home. Y’ain’t exactly the partyin’ type, are ya?”

“Mmmm,” Stanford was already re-immersed in his textbook studies - at least, as much as he could be, what with the loud music coming from up above. In other words, he was having a hard time focusing. Gnawing on the tip of his pen, he glanced over at Fiddleford, who had taken one of the books off of the top of his pile and was flipping through it.

“I don’t blame ya. I’ve never been one myself for get-togethers. I like socializin’ just fine, but I reckon somethin’ about me just rub folks the wrong way,” he said. 

Stanford felt a pang of sadness. Sure, Fiddleford might be a little odd or maybe even bizarre, but he was as friendly as they got. It made him frown to think that people didn’t like spending time with him. “Yeah, well, at least you’ve got your friends, right?”

Fiddleford chuckled and flipped another page of his book. “Heh… actually, I left most of my friends hundreds of miles back home. I came out here all on my own. I don’t know anyone. But I guess you’re right - I can write ‘em letters and stay in touch, even if’n I can’t see ‘em face to face.”

Stanford’s heart sank further. “Well… I’m your friend, right? So you’re not completely alone!” Fiddleford looked up at his roommate with a furrowed brow, and smiled gently. Stanford was surprised to feel his blood rush to his face. He cleared his throat and directed his attention back to his book. He did, however, sneak a glance over the top of the pages to see his… friend lower his eyes. He was blushing, too.

“Yes… yes, Stanford. You are my friend,” said Fiddleford, just above a whisper. He softly closed his book and sat still for a moment, staring at his lap. The room was mostly quiet - someone had finally turned the music off upstairs, and even though the chatter could still be faintly heard, it seemed as though most people were starting to head back to their dorms. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up to see Stanford pretend to not have been staring at him from above his book by becoming extremely concerned with what the page had to say about Bigfoot. Who knew that he was… supposedly a vegetarian? It was truly fascinating. You really do learn something new every day.

“You know, I’ve never really met anyone who was so interested in paranormal anomalies,” came the voice of Fiddleford. Stanford lowered his book the tiniest amount only to feel completely flushed again as he saw his roommate sitting on the opposite end of the couch, leaning his back against the arm rest, almost perfectly mirroring him. His toes were resting on Stanford’s. “Might I ask what got you so invested?”

Stanford opened his mouth, but no words came out. His cheeks were bright red, and he could feel Fiddleford’s feet on top of his own. How was he supposed to react? Was this something that friends normally did? He didn’t exactly have a whole lot of experience in that field. Hell, if someone told him that you were supposed to worship your friends like idols, he’d probably believe them. However, something about this felt different.

“I… I, uh… I’ve always been interested… in strange activity, that is. Uh… it’s - it’s mostly because of, um, my, uh, extra… um… ahem.” He wiggled his sixth finger with a meek smile. He didn’t need a mirror to tell him that he looked like a tomato with sideburns.

Fiddleford’s expression suddenly changed to one of intrigue. “Oh, that’s right! Your extra digits!” Stanford didn’t know that it was possible to blush further. His roommate leaned forward onto his knees. “Can I see?” he asked, meeting his eyes.

It was a simple enough question. The answer was either yes or no. And yet, memories of Glass Shard beach, the ridicule from Crampelter, the constant humiliation…

He rubbed the back of his hand slowly, grimacing slightly. Fiddleford was sitting in front of him, holding out his own hand. Was this safe?

Slowly, Stanford held out his hand. Fiddleford quickly took it with both of his own and began studying it intently. “It’s really quite somethin’, ain’t it?” he said. He did not make eye contact. He turned his hand over, ran his fingers on either side of his palm, and fondled his digits. Stanford began to worry that the rest of his body might not have enough blood. Finally, still grasping his hand, Fiddleford looked up at met Stanford’s eyes.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” he said shortly. He was not smiling. Stanford was confused, but coughed and nodded.

“You’re welcome.”

Fiddleford didn’t move a muscle, still staring straight into Stanford’s eyes. Minutes passed. He looked around, wondering what was happening. Was this a signal for something? Was this a complex friendship code that all adolescent men were supposed to have memorized? Was this how college students were supposed to spend their time? What did it mean? Why didn’t Stanley ever tell him about these things?!

Finally, Fiddleford let go of his hand, but Stanford’s relief was short-lived. Fiddleford rolled onto his backside and lay his head on his roommate’s lap, eyes closed and hands folded over his chest. He exhaled slowly and smiled.

Stanford was completely lost.

Face totally red, he took a deep breath and shakily reached out with his right hand to grab Fiddleford’s. Almost immediately, Fiddleford’s eyes shot open and looked at his hands. His face was flushed, too. Stanford felt a little bit more comfortable at that sight, but was also worried that he had crossed some line. But, despite all odds, Fiddleford didn’t storm off in anger or offense. Instead, he took the hand in both of his one last time and closed his eyes again. He giggled.

Giggled?

“Goodnight, Stanford Pines,” said McGucket.

What did any of this mean?

“Goodnight, Fiddleford.”

Stanford closed his eyes.


End file.
